Sandra Belloni — Complete eBook

apprised him of their wish to know what her origin
was, and of her peculiar reserve on that topic:
whereat he assured them that she would have no secrets
from him. His conduct of affairs was so open
that none could have supposed the gallant cornet entangled
in a maze of sentiment. For, veritably, this
girl was the last sort of girl to please his fancy;
and he saw not a little of fair ladies: by virtue
of his heroic antecedents, he was himself well seen
of them. The gallant cornet adored delicacy and
a gilded refinement. The female flower could
not be too exquisitely cultivated to satisfy him.
And here he was, running after a little unformed girl,
who had no care to conceal the fact that she was an
animal, nor any notion of the necessity for doing so!
He had good reason to laugh when his sisters talked
of her. It was not a pleasant note which came
from the gallant cornet then. But, in the meadows,
or kindly conducting Emilia’s horse, he yielded
pretty music. Emilia wore Arabella’s riding-habit,
Adela’s hat, and Cornelia’s gloves.
Politic as the ladies of Brookfield were, they were
full of natural kindness; and Wilfrid, albeit a diplomatist,
was not yet mature enough to control and guide a very
sentimental heart. There was an element of dim
imagination in all the family: and it was this
that consciously elevated them over the world in prospect,
and made them unconsciously subject to what I must
call the spell of the poetic power.

Wilfrid in his soul wished that Emilia should date
from the day she had entered Brookfield. But
at times it seemed to him that a knowledge of her
antecedents might relieve him from his ridiculous perplexity
of feeling. Besides though her voice struck emotion,
she herself was unimpressionable. “Cold
by nature,” he said; looking at the unkindled
fire. She shook hands like a boy. If her
fingers were touched and retained, they continued
to be fingers for as long as you pleased. Murmurs
and whispers passed by her like the breeze. She
appeared also to have no enthusiasm for her Art, so
that not even there could Wilfrid find common ground.
Italy, however, he discovered to be the subject that
made her light up. Of Italy he would speak frequently,
and with much simulated fervour.

“Mr. Pericles is going to take me there,”
said Emilia. “He told me to keep it secret.
I have no secrets from my friends. I am to learn
in the academy at Milan.”

“Would you not rather let me take you?”

“Not quite.” She shook her head.
“No; because you do not understand music as
he does. And are you as rich? I cost a great
deal of money even for eating alone. But you
will be glad when you hear me when I come back.
Do you hear that nightingale? It must be a nightingale.”

She listened. “What things he makes us
feel!”

Bending her head, she walked on silently. Wilfrid,
he knew not why, had got a sudden hunger for all the
days of her life. He caught her hand and, drawing
her to a garden seat, said: “Come; now tell
me all about yourself before I knew you. Do you
mind?”